


Awhile I thru III

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-31
Updated: 2001-08-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 17:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder takes an exceptionally brutal foray into the land of emotional self-torment.





	Awhile I thru III

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

It's Been Awhile by Nevah

Title: It's Been Awhile  
Author: Nevah  
Feedback:   
Webpage: http://www.geocities.com/nevah1  
TotalParts: 1  
Status: Complete  
Pairing: M/K  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: Existence. Post-episode.  
Series: "awhile" series #1  
Summary: Mulder takes an exceptionally brutal foray into the land of emotional self-torment.  
Notes: It's flowery, overdone, and angsty to the max. But in my deluded little world, it's what I like to believe. It's also a songfic, but I just know you want to give it a chance anyway. The song is called "It's Been Awhile," by Staind, and it rocks in a big way. Let's hear it for pseudo-angsting boys with guitars...  
And in the mean time, let's remember that I own almost nothing with respect to this story. Only the melodrama is mine, really, which I'm happy to claim; the rest belongs to CC and all those other mean people who killed off my beloved Alex.

* * *

I unlock the door of my apartment, the cold brass knob rotating slowly beneath my shaking hand. My steps are sluggish and stupid, the rubber soles of my shoes dragging jagged tracks across the thick fiber of the filthy carpet, and it takes damn near a decade to wade my way through the trash and drop my keys against the water-ringed glass of the coffee table. I haven't cleaned in weeks, but then, who gives a shit? The way I see it, the mess gives me a future, fucked up as that is. Whatever else happens, or doesn't happen, I always have the vacuuming that needs to be done. Wouldn't my mother laugh, to know that cleaning has become my backup reason for breathing. 

//It's been awhile Since I could hold my head up high//

I'm thinking about the rotting food in the sink so intently that I almost forget. I'm considering collecting some garbage when it slams me from behind all at once, like a sharp kick to the inside of my weakened knees, buckling them both and jerking me down to the floor where I clutch dumbly to the edge of the couch cushion. Have I been drinking? Am I drunk? I can't remember anymore. God, I'm pathetic. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to concentrate, try to form a coherent thought and cling to it, but you're really the only coherent thing inside me right now. The smoldering green of your eyes burns brighter than ever, and my breath chokes against the memory. I'm never going to stop seeing those eyes, am I. Piercing me from behind the barrel of a gun, thick eyelashes fluttering as you struggle with the trigger.

//It's been awhile Since I first saw you//

I shake my head, mind and body fuzzy as I try to rid you from my self. I don't want to remember you that way. Watching you try to kill me was far worse than if you'd actually taken your shot without a falter; this way, I have to relive the anguish in your gaze every waking moment and even more vividly in my dreams. It's exquisite fucking torture, that's what it is. I can feel it dancing out from my core through every artery, a dull, numbed ache pulsing through me to the edges and back again in nauseating waves. The more desperately I try to clear my mind the more crowded it becomes, and I feel the growl rumble deep in my throat as I shove against the arm of the couch and struggle to my feet. I have to stay still for a minute, ride out the sway of my frame as the head rush moves through me and threatens to knock me back to my knees.

//It's been awhile Since I could stand on my own two feet again//

I don't fall, miraculously; instead, I sense motion in the direction of my bedroom, instinct more than will driving me to somewhere safe. I was normal when I left Scully's place, wasn't I? As I held William she'd mentioned that it looked like I could use some rest, but then, I could *always* use rest. Pale, spooky Mulder: that's me. I've been fighting the creeping, tickling panic at my throat all day--just like every day. I wake up alone, as usual, but every minute that ticks by is just one minute closer to the unbearable. Closer to now. It's not going to bed alone that bothers me; it's knowing that there will be no soft knocks at my door in the night, no breathy, whispered phone calls asking if my food fetishes run toward whipped cream or hot sauce. My blood surges and my cock jumps at that one. I never told you, but just waiting for you that night--gasping beneath my sheets as I imagined lapping Tabasco sauce from your navel--was almost better than the sex itself when you arrived a half-hour later. The faint moan in your voice and the sounds of the grocery store in the background had given me an instant and raging hard-on, fueled considerably by my vision of you leaning against a shelf of condiments and telling me in great detail how you planned to fuck me. 

//It's been awhile Since I could call you//

My foot collides violently with the bed frame as I stumble into the room. Motherfucking thing--I'll break a toe one of these days, I just know it. I fight with my jacket for a minute before I'm finally able to peel it off and chuck it toward the chair in corner, and as it propels from my hands I catch a lungful of the thick, musty scent of treated leather it leaves in its wake. Leather... black leather, and denim... sweet, peppermint-flavored lips... soft, well-scrubbed skin that smells of hotel soap and generic aftershave balm... a wave of sensations that are clean and simple, ghosting my flesh with the cool breeze of your movement... I'm paralyzed, arm still outstretched in the arc of the jacket toss, fighting the desperate need to gather something of you around me. I want to crawl to the corner and bury my face in the garment crumpled there, breathe deeply until the over-oxygenation spins the room around me into obscurity, but I manage to hold myself in place this time. I can't take it, I know--I can't take having you seem so close--because truthfully, I'm scared shitless of just how far I might fall if I loosen my grip even a little. I know it looks bad, but I haven't broken quite yet...

//But everything I can't remember as fucked up as it all may seem the consequences that I've rendered I've stretched myself beyond my means//

God, how can you be gone? We were nothing to each other--enemies, friends, occasional fucking partners--no one label was quite right, but I needed them all. We fought each other brutal and bloody if there was a chance Scully or Skinner or anyone else might see, but bruises fade, don't they. I loathed your face in the daylight hours but longed for it at night; I wanted to hate you and hated to want you and of course you knew it all along. You knew how to take me so that it felt like giving, and the sweet paradox of it intoxicated me until I was deliciously drunk on the sort of helpless control your presence afforded me. There was such power between us but I never really knew who held it, and that was the thing that made it so exciting, the thing that made your most indifferent gaze or your most offhanded touch so invasive and erotic. I could scarcely breathe for the need to feel your hands on my body--punishment, pleasure, and pain--I wanted whatever you were willing to provide.

//It's been awhile Since I could say that I wasn't addicted//

I strip off my shirt and undo the button of my jeans, kicking my shoes off in the direction of the wall so that they thud bluntly against it. I need to feel some air on my skin or I'll go fucking insane. It's so damned hot and my foot still hurts like a sonofabitch, and I think that would probably be enough to push me right off the edge even if I wasn't already there. I don't undress completely; with the cold wind from the open window feathering faintly beneath the waistband of my pants and against the tensed muscles of my bare back, I decide that I prefer the tease of nudity to the real thing. You let yourself in one night and found me lounging around this way; I'd been half waiting for you, of course, playing up the pose, but my spine still tingled with anticipation as I felt your eyes drape over me appreciatively and the timbre of your velvet voice roll across your tongue. /Your ass does Levi's proud, Fox./ My heart clutches painfully at the memory, and a suffocating panic begins swimming low in my gut. I'm waiting, but... /he's not coming/, a little voice inside is screaming. God, you're not coming...

//It's been awhile Since I could say I love myself as well//

You're not coming, and it's all my fault. I pushed too hard, I didn't know when to walk away, and you took a bullet for it. You were right, when you said I had to die... the world would be a more peaceful place if I wasn't in it. One merciful shot to my temple really is worth a thousand lives... maybe more. What has the truth brought me, after all? More like what has the truth taken. It's not worth it, learning that so much of your life is a lie. It's just not fucking worth it. And I know it hasn't been worth it to lose /you/. I could have stopped Skinner... I could have said something, or I could have stepped in after his first shot... anything but gape at you like I did. It was strange to watch you bleed; for such a long time I guess I've thought of you as indestructible. I hurt and you mend, but never the other way around. Suddenly in the place to witness real pain on your face, I just... had to see it. For a fleeting moment it felt like it might even be liberating. Fucked up, no? One more thing I was wrong about, and we both know how masochistic I am about wallowing in my own mistakes. Maybe I was really looking for the ultimate self-torture weapon, and it turned up with a vengeance as you gasped and struggled so inhumanely on the pavement of the fucking Bureau parking garage. Nothing like hearing the last, blood-soaked words of your lover to secure a lifetime of nightmares. 

//It's been awhile Since I've gone and fucked things up just like I always do//

My lover. That's what you were, if I'm honest. Things were always more than just a casual fuck between us, even if I could never admit so much. I knew the first time you touched me that it was different: I shook, fear and lust pounding through me as your fingertips stroked into the hairline at the back of my neck, and I couldn't tell which emotion made me want you more. I remember the small, strangled noise that escaped my lips, the roar of my pulse rushing through my ears--and above all, the terrifying realization that I had never been more aroused in my entire life. /I won't hit if you don't, Mulder. I promise./ My joints turned to jell-o and I put a hand at your hip to steady myself, watching it slide against the fabric of your clothes with a sort of dumb amazement as I busied myself with remembering to breathe. You stepped abruptly forward, bringing the length of our bodies into contact, and I let you guide my face down to the warm hollow of your collarbone as your other arm tightened on my waist beneath the drape of my sport coat. You turned your head until I could feel your breath, hot and damp, pouring along my jawbone and into my ear, trailed by the gentle pressure of your lips and the lazy, wet curls of your tongue. Something wavered inside me and I exhaled sharply, my stomach spiraling abysmally toward my toes. I didn't know what to think or what to do with myself, our hands roaming along each other in search of sensitive spots; only seconds before I'd wanted to beat you shitless, but the sensation of feeling you with palms rather than fists was so unexpectedly overpowering that I suddenly couldn't imagine anything else. 

//It's been awhile But all that shit seems to disappear when I'm with you//

Returning momentarily to the present I let my hands, your hands, drift down toward my stomach, tracing fingertips along the faint creases of muscle that haven't yet faded from my recent bodily neglect. I want to stop myself--I don't want to go down this road again, not now--but before I can do anything decisive the fantasy closes in around me and I'm entirely helpless to the imaginary you. /Christ Fox, put that pretty mouth to good use already./ I obeyed, your words finally breaking the spell of the moment, and I smirked predatorily as I pressed my lips to your throat and sucked on the smooth flesh there. You moaned in response and began working at my clothes, relieving me of garments one by one and kicking them violently away. /You overdress,/ you grumbled, fumbling hopelessly with my tie. You never did quite master them: for the brief time we were partners, your ties always seemed to more closely resemble a noose than a fashion statement. Of course, I think that much was mostly your attitude. You fiercely resisted anything forced upon you, even something so simple as a dress code; it was an irritating, abrasive habit then, but it eventually became one of my favorite things about you. Passionate, strong, and fearless. You fought against everything, even the death I failed to save you from... 

//And everything I can't remember as fucked up as it all may seem The consequences that I've rendered, I've gone and fucked things up again//

I dig my fingernails into my palms, uselessly aiming to break the skin with the blunt, nibbled edges. I want to hurt, I want to bleed; I want distraction, I want penitence. I want to feel anything that will replace this vast, sickening emptiness created by your absence, but I don't know how to stop missing you so much. I need you, just one more time... I need to see your face, touch your body... if I can feel you against me, safe and alive, maybe I'll sleep soundly just one more night... 

//Why must I feel this way Just make this go away, Just one more peaceful day//

In the next instant I shift again, try to be rational about it. I try to convince myself that it was always meant to end more or less this way--since the start, I've laid awake at night when you were at my side, wondering if one of us would die before there could be a next time. Not really a mindful or responsible living habit between us, after all. We survived so much longer than I ever expected, but even in light of that I can't make it be enough. I'm so tired... so exhausted that I don't even know the face in the mirror anymore. I look old, beaten. Everyone in my life expects me to finally be at peace--a new chapter of my life is beginning, they say--but how can I live like I'm supposed to with so many pieces missing? I want--need--to be there for Scully, but I have to force the unconditional friendship that once came so easily. It's not that I don't still care about her, because I do, but it's like I've forgotten everything about myself that used to be so instinctive. I'm clumsy, I'm awkward, and I can feel the hurt of my miscalculations beginning to stretch beyond my own body. I'm suffering enough for everyone--the last thing I want to do is unwittingly share the curse.

//It's been awhile Since I could look at myself straight//

I rise from the bed and make my way out to the phone in the living room. I should call her--I should call someone, anyone. I have a million things I ought to be saying and at least as many apologies to make; I'm sure that whatever number I end up dialing will reach someone who is deserving of my shameless groveling. Picking up the receiver I punch the first seven numbers that come to mind, not even entirely sure if they belong to someone I know. They must, as they're so familiar to me, but I don't bother guessing at the voice that may respond. One ring... two... three... four... five... great, I've managed to pick someone who isn't home... six.... seven... eight... nine... but who wouldn't be in at this hour? Must be sleeping... ten... eleven... twelve... I position the words on my lips, waiting. /I'm sorry. I'm sorry to call at this hour, I'm sorry for waking you, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything, but you have to understand... please, forgive me.../

//It's been awhile Since I said I'm sorry//

Still there is no answer, and my grip on the curved plastic falls slack in despair. Even when trying to do something right, I manage to fuck it up. /But that number... dialed it so many times... no--*wanted* to dial it, holding the phone just this way... fingers poised, I lose my nerve... I always lose my nerve... wanted to call so badly.../ My jumbled thoughts formulate and collide randomly with one another, making no sense; then, all at once the pattern materializes, the framework locks together, snaring me within it and jerking me sharply with its strength. Yours, you--the number was yours, I was calling you. /Jesus, this isn't happening./ Not a residence number, you never kept one--but I remember clearly the night you gave it to me, kissing my chin delicately and sliding a small white card into my palm as you turned to leave. /Just in case you happen to get over that beautiful talent for angst, Fox./ Even then you knew me better than I knew myself, and you freely forgave me all my pseudo-psychotic bullshit. Helpless victim, unwanted advances--you let me indulge in all of it, never demanded that I face the truth about myself. How could I have taken advantage of you so completely? You gave me limitless reign to be a selfish bastard, and I never even thanked you for it. I certainly never allowed you the same liberties. Glancing briefly at the carefully lettered numbers on the card, I met your amused eyes with what I know was an expression of total loss; without the slightest idea how to respond, I felt the fierce blush flash up the back of my neck and settle in my ears and cheeks. /Speechless suits you, pretty boy./ The dim glow from the small lamp in my bedroom bathed your face in the perfect balance of light and shadow, making you look both devilish and angelic as you chuckled gently at my bemusement. /Have fun practicing the emotional torment, okay?/ You patted me amicably on the shoulder, the smile still evident on your lips as you turned from the illumination and let yourself out. I stared wordlessly after you, frozen as much by the ease of your beauty as by your words.

//It's been awhile Since I've seen the way the candles light your face//

I replace the phone in its cradle, deciding I don't have the energy to rip it from the outlet and throw it against the wall like I want to. Why couldn't I have gotten over myself sooner... why couldn't I have made even this much effort while you were still alive. What I wouldn't give for just one more chance to go to you, to prove that I could do it. There are so many things I never had the opportunity to say, so much I wanted to do for you that I was never brave enough to manage. I think you knew, just like you knew everything else, but that doesn't change a goddamned thing. It certainly doesn't keep me from feeling like the inconsiderate fuck that I am. As I collapse into the armchair at my side, I imagine the last time you were in this apartment. I was sitting here in this chair when you came in, and, willing myself silent and still, I watched you with heavy eyes as you crossed the room and settled yourself on the small coffee table in front of me. /Hey, Foxy./ Your hand snaked across the distance between us to rest on my knee, neither of us really acknowledging it as it slid casually up the length of my thigh. /You look tired./ I nodded; I really was tired. It had been a long couple of weeks, what with Scully so close to term and all the confrontations with Doggett, and I think you truly understood how much just being in your presence drained the tension from my mind. You shook your head at me in mock reproach, taking my hand and pulling me up from my seat, and led me in the direction of my bedroom. I sighed, submitting gratefully. I didn't have to ask for what I needed--you simply provided it without question. Once inside, you flattened your back into the nearest wall and pulled me against you with your good arm. /Have I ever mentioned how delicious your mouth is?/ I smiled at the compliment, taking my cue eagerly as I eased my lips against yours. I felt the growl in my throat before I heard it, arching my torso into yours and relishing the sensation of your tongue sliding slowly along my lower lip. It was the last kiss of its kind that we would ever share--I must have relived it a thousand times since then. 

//It's been awhile But I can still remember just the way you taste//

I rise suddenly, killing the lights and wandering back to my dark room. Stripping off my jeans, I toss them to the corner with the rest of my clothes and crawl methodically into bed. It's no use; you won't be coming to heal my wounds this time, or ever again. I suppose I could place blame for this on any number of classic scapegoats--my childhood, maybe, or some profound psychological imbalance--but I know the fault is my own. My pride is fucking out of control, and look what it has cost me. At what it has cost us. I have no capacity for guilt left in me tonight, as I've completely exhausted myself, but there always is and will be another day. I'll toss and turn and eventually jerk off before I can fall asleep, but I know the sleep will come. That's the beauty of it, after all. What would self-torture be if it was only a periodic suffering?

//But everything I can't remember as fucked up as it all may seem to be I know it's me I cannot blame this on my father he did the best he could for me//

The last thought I have before I drift off is the same one that's been haunting me for weeks; I see your face, bullet hole gaping on your forehead, eyes staring blankly up at nothing. I've witnessed so much perfection in those eyes, but this is the memory that comes to me when I don't have the will to fight. I know I deserve it, just as I deserved to lose you--no presumption should ever go unpunished. My regrets are owed to nearly everyone in my acquaintance, this is true, but to none so much as to you. I let you die, I let myself die. I killed us both. I'm not worthy of mercy.

//It's been awhile Since I could hold my head up high and it's been awhile since I said//

I'm sorry...

~*~

 

* * *

 

Title: Ab Initio  
Author: Nevah  
Feedback:   
Webpage: http://www.geocities.com  
TotalParts: 1  
Status: Complete  
Pairing: M/K  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: None.  
Series: "awhile" series #2, sequel to "It's Been Awhile"  
Summary: Krycek takes a sort of divided look at his first night with Mulder. A follow-up on one of the encounters from "Awhile." Notes: I was curious to take a look at some of the specific events of my first fic, so this would be the attempt at it. I'm considering doing all the encounters or at least one more, if I decide this one turned out well enough. Krycek admittedly sounds a little nuts here, but c'mon -- much as I love him, the guy has issues. And anyway, it makes him so much more fun to write.  
Don't own anything, as usual. Just the complete lack of plot, which I'm sure you don't want to claim anyway.  
Oh yeah - I kind of have a thing for giving my stories Latin titles, in case anyone has noticed. This one means "from the beginning."

* * *

To this day, I'm still not sure what the fuck I was thinking. Oh yeah, I wanted to stave off the routine beating and all of that, but the means I chose to the end really are beyond me. You could have slugged me, you could have so easily shot me right in the chest, and I did it anyway. /Call me impulsive, if you must, but just call me./ I welcomed your most violent reaction -- hell, I almost dared you to start taking swings. I know *I* would have broken a man for it, even if just on some lame, macho principle. But all the same, I couldn't seem to stop myself as I reached out, cupping my hand against the warmth of your neck and moving my fingers through the fine little hairs, mesmerized by the smooth, tickling sensation prickling along my skin. You paused, undoubtedly shocked, and I raced at the opportunity to seize total control. 

Control.

Jesus, power-tripping is an aphrodisiac like you would *not* believe. Do you know that? I think you do, you pretty little passive-aggressive thing. You have Skinner and Miss Dana down at the Bureau jumping at your every whim, and I don't give you near enough credit as to believe it's by accident. You know -- you *must* know -- exactly what you do to people, that pouty mouth and all the fascinating words that fall out of it. If you can't render someone helpless with your face -- which is rare, don't kid yourself -- your scathing intellect paired with the phenomenal paranoia is more than enough to keep 'em all panting after you like hungry puppies.

Of course, I never made it that far. Not at first, anyway. I was just like the others, enraptured by your beauty and all the fantasies it inspired. Truth be told, that's exactly what happened that night: I just sort of forgot, the line between reality and my lascivious thoughts blurred beyond distinction, and the daydreaming me took control just long enough to make me do something stupid. *The* stupid thing, in fact. I let you see, I showed my cards like a damn rookie. Always be the desired and not the desirer, that's the rule if you want to stay alive, and I fucking broke it so hard I'm amazed I didn't end up with whiplash. To want something is to be weak, and I can't believe I offered up my big, gaping wound to you with such a damned fervor. What an idiot. I realized what I had done just as it became too late, and so I waited for the inevitable. I waited for the bloody massacre to begin, but --

But.

Then there was the pause. That beautiful, gorgeous hesitation that bounced everything back into my court so fast I almost missed it. /Time to take advantage, time to fall... it's time, it's time. Now. Do it, it's time./ "I won't hit if you don't, Mulder. I promise." The words were gentler than I would have expected from myself, but then, you always manage to force things out of me that are entirely foreign. I'd been ready to hand down some ultimate cruelty, flesh out a fantasy /on your knees Mulder, *now*/, but I just couldn't do it. In my head the thoughts made me hard, but in my hands I only wanted soft /soft lips, soft hands, soft hair, softsoftsoft on me everywhere/. Soft and willing. I've had quite a few fucks in my time, but there is nothing so exquisite as one that is unforced /tell me you want this Fox, show me please show me, I can't do this if you don't want it/ and even eager. When your hand finally reached out for me, touching my hip and sliding back, then lower, I almost lost myself. I never asked for that hand, I never begged, much as I wanted to -- you gave it. My god, you gave it, and I never would have expected so much. The fearful tremors of your muscles were both thrilling and heartbreaking, and I ached at the unbelievable need to ride that power raw. Fighting is so easy, Fox, but this -- not this. /Take or be taken, don't meet me halfway.../

We moaned and rubbed and touched for a minute or two, innocent exploring /denial, denial... nothing is innocent... his helpless whimpers served well the vicious fantasies/, before I couldn't take it another second. "Christ Fox, put that pretty mouth to good use already." *Fuck*, /yes, please/, another careless mistake. I felt the smile against my throat and the power suddenly present in your grasp. Shifted again. Not mine. /I lied Mulder, I lied -- give it back, I need it. I need the control./ Your lips moved on my skin in ways I never imagined, my hips bucked insanely -- it had to stop. 

/Stop. Stop. Stop./

I pushed you back, seating you abruptly on the couch as I kneeled in front of you. Your eyes went wide, this wasn't what you were expecting, but the hard edge of concentration in your gaze suddenly dulled as I pressed my palm to your straining, cloth covered erection and adopted a rhythm against it. With the other hand I pulled almost violently at your tie, frantic to bare your skin but desperate to mask it as my evident power. /Right. Evident in what lifetime, you ass, you sucked his dick./ "Alex... *shit*, Alex..." /That's right Fox, you want this, you *need* this, I'm the giver and the taker and *everything* and that's just the way you want it.../ I undid the button and zipper of your slacks enough to shove them down on your hips and comfortably free your cock, running my fingertips in a deliberately slow path along the shaft. Your mouth opened and closed spastically, gasping for air but making no sound, knuckles tense and white as you groped at the sofa for grounding. /No footholds, never safe./ With very little ceremony I lowered my face to your lap, willing my throat muscles slack even before my lips touched you, coaching myself to swallow you whole without a flinch. Good wasn't good enough -- I wanted mind-blowing or I wanted nothing. And I'd be damned if I was going to take nothing.

As I pulled away after the first thrust I allowed myself a moment to admire you, spread out so desperately before me, grunting and moaning and slick with my saliva, and so very, very hard. I couldn't have -- *haven't* -- ever imagined better, and believe me, that's quite the compliment. I'm a sick fuck, if anything, and I have plenty of time to fantasize. Your skin would positively *crawl* at some of the the elaborate scenarios I've concocted. Or would it? The lost expression on your face and the beads of sweat collecting on your exposed chest are such a surrender, so much control right there for the taking, that I wonder exactly what you'd do for me if I said the right things and touched you in the right places. This much should be enough, I'm well aware, but like I said. I'm a sick fuck, if anything. I licked the crown of your erection long and slow and simultaneously pinched a nipple, grinning like a damn Cheshire cat at the vastly inarticulate noises you made at the touches. "Tell me, Fox... tell me how it feels, tell me if you like it... be pretty and poetic for me..." I swallowed you again and settled in for a nice, leisurely blow job, my tongue sliding slowly against the hard flesh as I guided the erratic direction of your short thrusts toward the center of my throat.

/That's it Mulder, let *me* lead, give *me* the power.../

And all at once, the floodgates opened. One minute you couldn't form a coherent word, and in the next a veritable tidal wave of diction poured from your mouth. "Alex, oh god Alex... so good... so warm, so gentle... never dreamed you could be this soft, this sweet... mouth... I want it, I want to taste it, I want to feel it everywhere... pleaseohshitplease..." As you neared release, your thoughts ran together into nonsense again and your voice spiraled off into a garbled oblivion. No matter; you spoke enough to satisfy me, to give up the last of your control. I wanted you, I've always wanted you, but I *do* have a tiny morsel of pride, you know. There are certain standards, and they *will* be met. /Pretty high and mighty, Alex... you know you were ready to beg./It would look questionable to an outsider, I'll admit. It's hard *not* to appear subordinate with another man's cock between your lips. But we both know the truth, now don't we? Nobody in control gives those plaintive little sobs as they come, or pants quietly as they're licked clean of their own semen. I crawled up to straddle your lap with my knees, pinning you beneath me as I leaned forward to push my tongue inside that pretty mouth. /My terms, this is on my terms, it isn't because you asked, it's because *I* wanted it, that's right Fox, it's always me, now be a good boy and sit there and taste yourself.../

You offered, and more than once, to suck me off that night. You thought you were being gracious, trying to return the favor. Isn't that right? Isn't that what was running through your head as it dawned on you what happened, and you touched my face awkwardly with the back of your hand, scraping it in satisfying strokes across my stubble? And did you wonder why I said no? Do you still wonder? Of course you do, that's one of your greatest skills. You stick on things like a broken record, wearing the grooves deeper and deeper until you can't see the way out anymore. I bet it fucking irks you to death that I just smiled and shook my head, bending to nibble at your throat and silence you. /No, you can't see, you can't witness that helpless look in my eyes that I know would be there, you can't realize that I would be your slave for just one more touch of your lips.../ Your own purrs of contentment drowned out your protests, and that, as they say, was that. I took you /mine... I seized, I captured; mine always, mine from the beginning/, and that's just the way it is. Such an asshole, I know. A lying, cheating bastard, you've said it yourself so many times, but it has to be this way.

I own you /you own me/, and that's just the way it is.

~*~

 

* * *

 

Title: II  
Author: Nevah  
Feedback:   
Webpage: http://www.geocities.com/nevah1  
TotalParts: 1  
Status: Complete  
Pairing: M/K  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: None  
Series: "awhile" series #3, sequel to "It's Been Awhile"  
Summary: A twilight phone call, a grocery store, and an antagonistic Krycek. A second follow-up to "It's Been Awhile."  
Notes: Part three in the "Awhile" arc; however, the reading of parts one and two is not necessarily needed. The connection between the pieces is very loose to say the least, and I think (well, I hope) this one is pretty fun on its own.  
Anyway, this details another of the encouters from "Awhile." A late-night phone call, to be specific. :) Warnings for language and *very* mild mentions of bondage and kink, but amazingly there is almost no angst. Crazy, huh?

* * *

The phone rings about ten times before he finally picks up. Working for the FBI, you'd think he would be more used to late-night calls.

"What."

I grin into the phone. He's so cute when he's surly. "Asleep already?"

A pause, careful. Hearing my voice catches him by surprise. Then: "Fuck."

I want to laugh, but I manage to swallow it. He's probably already wound up enough. "Patience, Fox, patience. That will come soon." Okay, so I have to throw a little something in there after all. I'm sure he's expecting it, anyway.

"Christ, Alex. It's two o'clock in the morning."

"Are you saying you don't want me to come?" I push my voice at the edges so that I sound wounded and pitiful.

He doesn't respond, and I can just *see* the trademark Look of Deep Thought stretching across his face. I smile again. He has to consider that one for a minute. Well, we can't have that, now can we?

"So tell me, Mulder. Whipped cream or hot sauce?" Best to throw a curve ball here. He needs a distraction.

"Huh?"

I sigh dramatically. "I do believe I spoke English, lover-boy."

"W-what about whipped cream or hot sauce?" He falters, and I know it's because of the nickname. He's not quite used to being *somebody's* yet. Being owned.

"Which would you like?"

"What do you *mean*, which would I like? That is just about the stupidest question anyone has ever asked me. Let alone the stupidest question anyone has *called in the middle of the night* to ask me." He was still a little foggy from sleep before, but he's wide awake now and arrogant as hell. Well, not for long.

"Which would you like to suck off my cock, of course." I've been planning that line for about ten minutes, and it takes everything I have not to dance around at how good it feels in my mouth.

His silence is impressively complete. He's trying to decide whether he's more shocked or aroused by the whole thing, and I'm just hedging my bets that the hand will play in my favor. Not likely that he'll react badly, but you never know.

I continue after a minute, going for broke. "And which would you like me to lick off that perfect ass of yours, right before I fuck it raw?"

He's so easy. I can tell just what he's thinking, even though the quality of his silence hasn't changed. I know what he's going to say before he says it, it comes as no surprise, but I'm still amused as hell to hear it. "You're sick, Krycek."

"Oh am I?" I'm working really hard not to laugh, biting my lip until I think it might bleed. He likes to play it like this, like *I'm* the deviant one here. Can we say 'denial'? 

"Abundantly."

You set 'em up lover, and I'll knock 'em down. "Mm-hm. I'm a raging pervert, and you're not at *all* turned on by this." Ri-ight. And Hell will be freezing over any day now.

"That's pretty much it, yeah." His voice is even and cool, but it's a forced calm. Sometimes I think he's just teasing me, just going along with my delusions of grandeur, but these little episodes always provide proof to the contrary. I've hardly said anything, and he's already got his boxers in a knot.

"Well, if you're not turned on, Foxy, I guess I'm going to have to try harder." I practically purr into the phone, my voice heavy with sex. It's great.

"Dammit Alex, that wasn't a challenge."

Of course it was. Silly boy, he thinks he's so sneaky. All that psychology training has made him think his mind-fucks are imperceptible. Yeah, right.

Needless to say, I ignore him. "Hmm, where to start. Hey, you know what, Mulder? Fetishes are even more fun in pairs. I have some good nylon rope in my trunk, and your headboard is perfect, with those knobs on the corners... my god, the things I could do to you with your hands out of the way..."

Silence. A very *loud* silence.

Almost... just a little further...

"I mean, just imagine it... imagine where I could put my *mouth*, without those hands distracting me..."

The choked little gasp he makes is quiet, but I catch it. Bingo.

"So, pushing any buttons yet?" I moan softly, because it's either that or laugh. This is just too ridiculous for words, but it's what he needs. He can't just *give* the control, oh *heavens* no. I have to fight for it a little. 

"No? Well, I know of a few fun things we could do with a cock ring and a whip, but it could take some time to get that stuff togeth--"

//"Cashier to the front please, cashier to the front."// The overhead speakers blare with a squeaky teenager's voice, and I glare ineffectually at the ceiling. Jesus, way to ruin the mood.

I know he hears it, there's no way he couldn't, and I'd wager my Glock that he's going to ask--

"Alex, where are you?"

I smirk at the tone in his voice. Cautious, but terribly intrigued. He knows exactly where I am, of course. He wouldn't have asked if he didn't. He feigns so much to dislike surprises, after all. The kinky bastard just wants to hear me say it, he likes the idea that someone else might have heard the conversation, and I can't stop the hungry growl from escaping my throat at the realization. It's moments like these when I know tightly I have him, how deep he's let himself get. God, it's delicious.

"In town, naturally."

"Fuck you, that's not what I meant."

"Fuck *me*? Oh no, Fox, fuck *you*. Fuck you long and hard, and in about twenty minutes if you'll get your shit together and pick a condiment so I can get out of here." A young girl who has started stocking shelves nearby hears me, dropping a can of soup in surprise. I retrieve it for her, smiling. I'm on a roll tonight. 

In my ear, I hear him breathing. This is asking a lot of him, I know. Not just submission, but *active* submission. Wanting it. Liking it. Accepting it. "Well?"

He releases a low breath. I really wish I could see his face right now, all the emotions there. It must be absolutely breathtaking. 

Finally he answers, just when I'm starting to think maybe he won't, and he doesn't sound even a little angry or apprehensive. In fact, I'd say the gravely rumble in his voice is downright lusty. "Bring both."

I run my tongue along the edge of my teeth, grinning. Oh, but it's going to be a fun night. "With pleasure."

"And Alex?"

"What?"

"Don't forget the rope."

I move to hang up, chuckling. "See you soon, pretty-boy." Yes, a very fun night indeed.

~*~

  
Archived: July 04, 2001 


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